


Bloody Hands & Damaged Hearts

by EllanaSan



Series: Hayffie Summer Week 2019 [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Hayffie Summer Week, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships, day 6: Quote me a Hayffie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 07:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20188483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllanaSan/pseuds/EllanaSan
Summary: The kiss happened in the breath between a shout and a slap.





	Bloody Hands & Damaged Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6 is Quote Me A Hayffie! And for my quote I chose this: “We met our wounds in each other’s bodies” – Lidia Yukavnitch

The kiss happened in the breath between a shout and a slap.

Effie couldn’t say who moved first or how they went to Haymitch screaming at her and her hand making an unforgiving descent toward his cheek to their lips being locked together.

She shouldn’t have brought up his Games, she knew that much. She shouldn’t have accused him of letting children die year after year. She shouldn’t have yelled at him that he was _responsible_. She shouldn’t have tried to hit him.

But her tributes were dead yet again, lost before the Games even properly started, and it hurt _so_ _badly_. She was upset and tired and her head _throbbed _because she was trying not to cry and…

He shouldn’t have tossed a glass at the wall. He shouldn’t have called her the names he had called her. He shouldn’t have reminded her _he _wasn’t the one who picked up the names so if somebody there was responsible for their death, logic dictated that it wasn’t _him_. He shouldn’t have threatened her.

She figured he was upset too. Because she had brought up the Second Quarter Quell and how Maysilee would have made a better mentor, how the girl from One should have won and spared them all a useless mentor… Because he wasn’t drunk enough yet to pretend he didn’t care. Because their tributes were dead yet again and the children had been too young, too innocent, too…

And there they were now…

With her right wrist tightly clasped in his grip from when he had intercepted her slap, her body pinned to the cold glass of the bay window, her mouth actively exploring his…

It was wrong. So, _so _wrong.

He wedged a knee between her legs but met no resistance because her thighs parted readily. A little _too_ readily.

She wasn’t sure what her free hand was doing on his chest but soon enough, the buttons of shirt gave way to skin and he groaned into her mouth as her fingers met his skin. They found chest hair. He never kept himself groomed.

His tongue forced her lips apart and the kiss deepened. She could feel his heavy breaths on her face and she told herself she was disgusted. Her hips rocked twice without her consent.

He sucked her tongue in his mouth.

_Damn_, but he could kiss. 

The hand that wasn’t still holding her wrist so hard it would bruise was on her breast, kneading it over her dress…

Did he expect her to just surrender to him? She never did.

She bit down on his bottom lip as she drew her head back.

He hissed. His hand shot up from her breast to grab her throat.

She immediately caught his wrist and pulled but his big hand remained where it was and there was such fury on his face that, for a second, she thought he might actually do it: kill her like he had threatened to do since she had started working for Twelve.

But he didn’t squeeze, he didn’t choke her or strangle her or…

He was breathing hard. They both were.

He took a step back, his hand half-slipping from around her throat, his grip slackening on her wrist… She used the advantage to shrug his hand off.

And then she used her newly free hand to grab the collar of his shirt and pull him back into her.

He went willingly enough, bracing himself with one hand on the bay window over her head. His body still crushed hers against the glass, his hand still squeezed her throat once before moving down, following the curve of her collarbone, finding the sweetheart neckline of her dress… When he touched the top of her breasts she sucked in a breath of air.

“I hate you.” he growled.

And that he could believe.

“I hate you more.” she hissed and brutally undid his belt.

She hated him because he wasn’t what she wanted him to be and he refused to conform to her expectations. He wasn’t the dashing victor she had watched win a Quarter Quell, he wasn’t playing at being a happy mentor, he refused to pretend Twelve could ever win even to reassure young children who were going to die, he systematically burst her bubble when she repeated loud and clear that _this year would be the year_… She hated him because he had made her see what was under the scratched veneer of the Capitol and it wasn’t pretty.

She supposed _he _hated her because she conformed a little too much to _his_ expectations. She was the perfect walking Capitol doll, the dreamed escort, dumb enough not to be a threat but witty enough to appeal to most. He hated her because he wanted her, had wanted her from the very first moment he had refused to shake her hand – she wasn’t _actually_ dumb, she knew when a man’s eyes lingered too long and she also knew what it meant. He hated her because she tried to make him _care_, tried to shape him into an actual victor, tried to stop him from drowning in alcohol and forget they had a job to do…

She was the embodiment of all he hated, all that had hurt him all his life, in one gorgeous package.

He was the walking reminder that everything she had ever beheld as truth was a lie, he was the breathing grave of her peace of mind.

He _fucked_ her because it was a way of _fucking_ everyone that had ever used him for their amusement.

She _fucked_ him because he had taken her innocence from her and she would have preferred to remain blind.

He _fucked_ her to get some sort of sick revenge.

She _fucked_ him to punish him – and herself.

It was twisted and wrong and as toxic as it came.

But there was always a moment, a _second, _in the middle of it when they eyes would meet and they would recognize each other for what they really were: two very _fucked-up_ people who didn’t know how to cope with the festering wounds inside their souls. And for that second, that brief tiny moment, they weren’t alone and the wounds were soothed.

That was why they always went back to roughly pushing each other against flat surfaces even when they swore high and low afterwards that it was the last time and that it wouldn’t happen again.

That brief moment when they knew deep down they were the same: slaves and murderers, bloody hands and damaged hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you liked it!


End file.
